Cold Springs(29)

“I've heard kindergarteners louder than that. Are you a kindergartener?”

“HERE, SIR!”

Mallory was crying, but she didn't care. She just hoped she'd broken the bastard's eardrums.

“Fall in, Zedman.”

Mallory staggered toward the line, stopped halfway, doubled over. The world thickened like maple syrup around her—everybody staring at her, waiting for her to die.

The instructors' eyes looked like her father's—cold disapproval, her last argument with Daddy, his insistence, If you don't keep away from him, I will make him stay away. I can't stand this anymore, Mallory.

She finally managed to get in line. She held out her arms and the assistant instructor shoved a bundle at her. He yelled orders until she was standing straight, holding her stuff with her elbows at a 45-degree angle, forearms level to the ground. The bundle wasn't that heavy, but standing there at attention, her arms got sore quickly.

The assistant instructor ripped the gag off the guy who'd cussed.

“I say, Eyes front,” the black dude bellowed, “you say, Sir. And you are looking at me. Eyes front!”

“Sir,” they all said.

“Pathetic. EYES FRONT!”

“SIR!”

The black dude was getting off on his power trip, bullying little kids. It occurred to Mallory that one of these instructors might actually hit her. The idea sank in like the prick of a he**in needle—painful, but salty, pleasant in a sick way. Mallory would be able to show her bruises in court. She'd laugh when this place was shut down and all of these blowhards were dragged off to jail.

Just pretend a little while, she told herself. Just get to a phone.

“Ladies and gentleman,” the black guy said, “this is Cold Springs Academy. My name is Dr. Hunter. I own and direct this facility. While you are here, I direct you.”

He didn't say, I own you, but that's what Mallory heard.

“You are now part of Black Level,” Hunter said. “You are holding two sets of black fatigues, two pairs of underwear, one pair of shoes, one blanket, one bar of soap, one roll of toilet paper, and one toothbrush. Everything else—all other privileges—must be earned. Every rule must be followed. You will not advance from Black Level until you show that you have earned the right to do so. Is that understood?”

Mallory muttered, “Yes, sir.”

Of course, not everybody did, so they had to say it again, yelling, “YES, SIR!”

“Run in place,” Hunter said. “NOW!”

You've got to be joking, Mallory thought.

But the assistant instructor was yelling in her ear: “MOVE IT! KNEES UP! RUN!”

Mallory tried. She was sure she looked like a damn fool, holding this crap and jogging, feeling like she was going to puke.

Soon she was sweating, wishing she'd taken off her jacket. The air was cool, even cooler than back home, but it was drier, too. It burned her mouth and nose. The pain in her gut was unbearable.

Hunter called, “Halt!”

The second instructor was at the end of the line, yelling at the kid who'd had his mouth gagged earlier. The kid had thrown his supplies on the ground and kicked them away.

“I'm leaving!” the kid yelled. He had spiky hair, unnaturally yellow, and with his face all red and angry his whole head looked like a big match.

“F—” The kid stopped himself, remembering the gag. “Forget your Black Level. You can't make me stay here.”

Match-Head started storming off, but quickly he realized he didn't know what direction to storm off in.

They were in the middle of a clearing about the size of a volleyball court, surrounded by scrubby woods. Workout equipment was scattered around—a balance beam, a tire obstacle course, a couple of cinder block walls of various heights. The only road led toward the big ski lodge–type building they'd passed on the way in, and that was a good quarter mile away. The van that had dropped them off was gone. The horizon was nothing but low puke-colored hills in all directions. Mallory knew from Chadwick that this place was somewhere in Texas—the absolute middle of nowhere.

Match-Head started to stomp up the road, then stopped in his tracks. A third staff member had appeared in front of him, like he'd been waiting in the woods. The new guy was holding something that looked like a canvas pup tent with a bicycle chain stitched through it.

Hunter said, “No one leaves except by working the levels. How you stay depends on you.”

Then Mallory realized the canvas thing was a body sack. The bastards would chain you in it up to your neck.

Mallory glared at Hunter, not believing anyone would actually use that thing, but Hunter didn't look like he was bluffing.

Match-Head didn't move.

“Your supplies are on the ground,” Hunter told him. “You won't get new ones.”

Slowly, the kid turned. He went to the supplies and started picking them up.

The kid was crying. He was probably a year older than Mallory, but there he was, crying. Mallory could still see the impression of the gag—red lines around his mouth.

When Match-Head was back in line, Hunter barked more commands—turns, forward march. Army stuff. None of the kids made any more fuss.

Mallory switched off her brain, tried not to think about the pain. She concentrated on her feet moving, on the commands of the instructors.